Triplets

Saturday April 12, 2014
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Triplets

I took my notebook
for a walk when I went
to check the mail.

I planned to sit
on a bench near the marina
to write a poem

but the sun was an electric
blanket thrown over me
and I couldn't find my way out.

Instead, I sauntered back home
and settled in the shade
under our stilt house

to read two letters from a friend.
The first has an owl, a snail, a blue bird,
a pink flower, a tiny butterfly, a star,

and cloud stickers added for my
enjoyment. The second is framed
by colorful polka dots.

I had a hard time writing a poem
earlier when I first got up
so thought a change of scenery

would help. I was wrong. But, I'm
writing, anyway, just putting my pen
on the page and watching

the black letters emerge and curl
into words. See how I'm faking it
by enjambing the lines and dividing

them into triplets? There is a small bird
on a rain gutter across the street
warbling away, turning his head

this way and that, creating his own
poem. Wish I could, too. I glance up
but he has flown away.

Crochet

I'm wondering if there was a storm
out in the ocean over the weekend
that produced these huge waves.

I was here on Saturday
and the ocean was flat
with just foot high slats.

Today they're six feet giants
building, building, falling
into lace, a doily crocheted

by my grandmother. I can see
her hands grasping the hook,
twirling the thin, white thread

over and under, punctuating
each move with her anger, her
dissatisfaction, her mouth a straight line,

creating beauty out of her everyday
disappointments. The sun is warm.
The wind is cool. The waves keep pounding.

Yesterday

I don't even bother to lock the car since the area is deserted.
The sky is a paragraph of sadness and the wind a scythe
slicing through me. I put on my sweatshirt, grab my phone,

and almost run up the boardwalk to the beach, snapping a picture
as I go. I have a letter from a fiend in a sunny envelope I plan
to read on one of the benches, but, as soon as I sink my sneakers

in the sand, I know it will be too cold. Instead I walk around
and notice an area fenced off for the nesting plovers. I don't see
any, though. I take a few photos of the layers of steel waves,

then say goodbye for today. I tighten the strings of my hoodie
and head back over the dunes of short, spiky, grasses. Stop. Lilac
blossoms arch over the sidewalk. I put my face right up into them

and take a big sniff of memory. Of our old lilacs in the back yard.
Of a vaseful on my desk at school. Of walking by the neighbor's
and plucking a few flowers then chewing on them. That sweet

bitter fragrance on my tongue. I don't steal any today but I think
about it. I glance up and spy a sentence of blue. I continue on
to my car, lilacs in my lungs, breathing in the the poetry of nature.

Endings

......from my sister, Sally.
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Endings

We're sitting in bed on this last full day
of our third winter in Florida. Retirement

is a good novel and we gladly turn the pages
one day at a time. We're watching a documentary

about a group of boat racers trying to set a circumnavigation
record in a boat using biofuels. They're in Panama

right now trying to get through the canal but are having
problems. One guy just sliced his foot and they are behind

schedule. I didn't realize it takes twelve hours to get from
the Atlantic to the Pacific. It took us over sixty years

to get to these lazy mornings. Tomorrow, we'll head back
north for a summer near the sea. I'll ride my bike

to Ocean Park Beach, see my kids and granddaughter
often, have cookouts with friends, and play a little golf.

Gary will get his boat ready for tuna fishing and, pretty
much, drive everybody crazy until he catches one.

But, today, we're enjoying the ending of this chapter.
The Earthrace crew are currently in the Indian Ocean.

It's monsoon season. They're miserable but ahead
of schedule. We have a few chores to do today to close

our house up. One thing at a time and it will all get done.
Just like the racers who complete their quest successfully.

We aren't racing, anymore; just floating along.
We read our book slowly, savoring the shape of time.

Weather or Not

May 2: Weather or Not

We decided not to go boating today
because the weatherman is predicting

thunder showers this afternoon. So, I'm sitting
in bed playing on my iPad while Gary snores

beside me. I almost went outside like I did
during April but I just wasn't that ambitious.

By the time I woke up, the sun had already risen
and the light around the blinds was boring old

white not the gold that makes everything look
beautiful. So, I plumped three pillows

behind me and am leaning against them.
I checked Facebook to see what was new.

Looks like the Bruins lost to the Canadiens
in the hockey playoffs last night. Then I checked

the Weather Channel app: 75 sunny degrees here
and 52 in Old Orchard Beach. We'll be up there

in nine days. I played six games of Words
With Friends. Started today's Wordstorm.

I'm up to 68% but didn't get the big one yet.
Checked The Writer's Almanac for today's poem:

"Making a Bed" by Howard Moss. Then I came here
to Pages to write....anything. First, though, I went

to my Kindle app and checked out the prompt for
today in a new book I just downloaded yesterday

called The Daily Poet and found out the Weather
Channel began broadcasting on this day in 1982.

That's 32 years ago. So, they want us to include
weather terms in our poem today. Gary's snuggled

like a thundering cloud next to me, my phone is vibrating,
a mini earthquake, and I'm out of nothing to write about.

Day 30: Leftovers

From everyone......
------------
Leftovers

I'm writing a poem for the thirtieth morning in a row.
The first morning I sat in bed all cozy comfy
but that woke Gary up. The second morning
I sat in my recliner with my feet raised while the sun

smeared the room with butter. I wrote about that.
The next day I went out on the porch and have been
here ever since. I won't bore you with another sun
description or what the breeze feels like on my bare

shoulders. Instead, I'll write about....well, I don't know.
Sherrie's remaining word is Timeless. It's a beautiful word
like these moments of solitude. Dayle suggested Seasons
and I think she meant the seasons of life. Like Bob's

winter occurring in spring. Anne gave me a mouthful
of words: Sunrise, Sunset, Surviving, Coping, Hoping,
Retirement, Dreams, Baby, Birth, Luck, Weekend,
Tides, Waves, Freedom. They braided themselves

into most of my thirty poems. Like the long braid my mom
saved after my first haircut. Years later I lent it to Anne
and she incorporated it into her own hair on Prom night.
Gina passed along Friends, Peace, and Community.

Those ideas are in just about everything I write.
So, even if I didn't single any one of these words out,
they were with me. Each morning I took them out,
held them in the palm of my mind, burnished them

until they outshone the sun, then tucked them away
in my heart's pocket. They waited patiently for the right
moment to burst free. Today I released them
to cavort like dolphins in the ocean of my words.

Day 29: Comfort

From my friend, Gina......
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Comfort

I carry the clean sheets into the guest room.
They sag a bit in my arms, like my spirits

now that Erin and Kylie are gone. I wrestle
the bottom sheet into position then smooth

the top sheet folding the edge over. I stuff
the pillows into their cases and fluff them

as I put them at the head. Then I spread
the blue and yellow quilt, my sister Nancy made,

over everything, pulling the edges down just so.
After that I get Windex and paper towels.

I spray the mirrored closet doors. Stop. Is that
what I think it is? Oh, yes, my Kylie girl left me

her lip prints. I wipe the whole surface until it
squeaks except for that sweet kiss for Grammy.